


Real Life Romantic Research

by Jalules



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, M/M, Porn with Feelings, roleplay sort of?, this is actually pretty sappy i hope it's alright
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-07-19 17:42:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7371406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jalules/pseuds/Jalules
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It feels like a scene from a movie anyway, walking Dave to the door, kissing him softly with all the intentions of a goodbye, but then Dave is holding onto him, asking, “No but for real, where else do you have to be?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Real Life Romantic Research

**Author's Note:**

> commission fic!  
> For info on my commissions, check my tumblr.

_._

_._

_._

It’s taken some adjusting to get used to living without the constant threat of death and destruction. Karkat has always been the type to err on the side of caution (some might go so far as to say he’s paranoid, which he will neither confirm nor deny,) but even he can admit to relaxing a little now that he’s living in a secure environment, among friends, with no vicious monsters or evil queens out to kill them all. It’s been nice, not having to look over his shoulder, not needing to triple lock every door or carry a weapon at all times.

For so long, everything was terrible. And not just during the game, although that certainly was the pinnacle of the whole miserable apocalyptic clusterfuck experience, but before, too. Alternia, on the whole, sucked. Earth, or at least the tiny portion of it that Dave inhabited, from the stilted bits of story Karkat has gathered through throwaway comments and mumbled admissions, also sucked.

But now- now things are so good, and sometimes Karkat has to pinch himself to realize that this is his life, this is home, this is victory, this is everything. And right there in the middle of it is Dave.

Dave who laughs easily, whose lap is way too comfortable to sleep in, who traces the gradient of color on Karkat’s horns almost compulsively when they’re alone, muttering deep questions about the universe just loud enough to hear a little more than half of what he says.

Dave, who makes Karkat feel lightheaded and frustrated and so unbelievably calm in turns, the way all the people you allow into your quadrants ought to, but he doesn’t fit quite right anywhere and Karkat can’t find it in himself to mind.

Dave, who smirks at Karkat when he holds his hand in public, but never complains, not even when John makes the same joke for about the hundredth time; “Geez guys, get a room!”

Karkat has argued that they have a room. They have several. Everyone has basically all the rooms they could ever want, more rooms than you can shake a severed wooden shoot at. If Karkat wanted to hold Dave’s hand in every single room in their newly crafted universe, he could. And he might, if he ever finds a good reason to. As things stand, just a few rooms are enough, and a lot of the space outside, if they happen to be walking through it.

He holds Dave’s hand when they walk to and from Jade’s place of residence (“Holy shit just call it a house,” Dave keeps telling him,) before and after they get their asses absolutely handed to them in any three games of Jade’s choosing. He holds Dave’s hand like they’re walking back from some sort of adorable date scenario, which maybe they kind of are but neither of them are particularly good at identifying when they’ve stumbled upon a real life romantic moment.

It feels like a scene from a movie anyway, walking Dave to the door, kissing him softly with all the intentions of a goodbye, but then Dave is holding onto him, asking, “No but for real, where else do you have to be?”

And the answer is nowhere, now. Karkat has no obligations, no leadership duties to screw up or enemies to fight off, no major decisions to struggle with and no motivational speeches to give. He has this thing that’s almost like free time, like having a choice, and it’s kind of overwhelming but also really, really nice.

“Come on,” Dave says, and it’s a suggestion, a request. There’s that nervous shift of his shoulders that broadcasts everything he’d say if pushed _just_ a little; that he knows Karkat is a sensitive guy but guess what, so is he, and that he’s got a lot of feelings and that honestly, he doesn’t really like to be alone, and that Karkat has become possibly his favorite person to be around, even on a planet quite literally inhabited by all his friends.

So he stays.

It happens fast, the unspoken decision to go to Dave’s room (their room? Karkat doesn’t want to make assumptions but he spends a metric fuck ton of time there honestly,) to stop to kiss in the doorway and never quite break contact on the way to the bed, pulses pounding, and Dave says something up against Karkat’s mouth like, “-you’re totally imagining this as some Molly Ringwald teen romance bullshit, aren’t you?”

“No,” Karkat says snippily, although he does think Dave would look nice in any number of hideous 1980s era prom and/or bridal party gowns. He pushes Dave’s sunglasses up and out of the way, only slightly insulted when Dave takes hold of them to remove them entirely, as if he’s convinced Karkat will break them.

“Romance _novel_ , then,” Dave tries again, insistent on being kind of a dick, even when he’s the one who wanted Karkat to come inside and presumably make out for a while, “If I had a bodice you could rip it. Or I’d rip yours. I don’t know man, somebody’s bodice is gettin’ ripped.”

“That’s actually really fucking dangerous,” Karkat argues, though he does edge his thumbs under the hem of Dave’s shirt, thinking that he wouldn’t mind having to extract him from some kind of overwrought costume, slow and sensual, “You have to open those things a little at a time, or your air sacs will seize.”

Dave gives him a dubious look, which he counters with a very serious frown. He _knows_ this stuff. Because of reasons.

“Nerd alert,” Dave says, like he has any room to talk, and kisses Karkat again, bringing a hand up to get his fingers into Karkat’s hair, holding on when he’s dipped back onto the bed, smooth as fucking anything. They move together easily, practiced by now, Dave getting hard against Karkat’s thigh, Karkat’s thoughts shifting in the semi-instinctual, semi-schoolfed direction that urges him to fill a quadrant, to claim a partner, to do his part for the empire. He kisses Dave with intent, plotting out which positions will be most prudent, how close all necessary lubricants are in relation to the bed, but then-

But then Dave’s lips quirk and his shoulders shake and he’s doing that silent laugh thing that means he’s trying not to burst into hysterics at his own undoubtedly hilarious inner monologue.

“What?” Karkat demands, hands resting at Dave’s hips, gaze turned to the ceiling in a blatant display of exasperation, “ _What_ do you have to say?”

Dave leans back in a faux-seductive pose, suppressing a smile, “Are you gonna lay me down by the fire and unfasten my chastity belt now?” He asks, raising his eyebrows above where his shades would have covered, teasing, “Or did you have some flower petals you wanted to scatter around first?”

Karkat snorts, repeats, “Chastity? Good fucking luck locking that Pandora’s box of horseshit back up.”

Dave’s battle against smiling comes to an end, his expression so fond it makes Karkat ache, “You didn’t even qualify that reference with an ‘earth’ or a ‘human,’” He says, “I’m so proud.”

“Shut up,” Karkat says without venom. He leans in to speak right up against Dave’s ear, delighting in the way the close contact makes him shiver, says, “Since you asked, no, there’s no fire or flowers. But I _was_ hoping to tenderly jam my fingers up your chute as part of my ongoing research into how the fuck to get you to make that one really loud squeaky sound.”

Silence. He could patent this technique, guaranteed for shutting Dave Strider the hell up, make millions in the gorgeous mumbling nitwit quieting market. He can _feel_ Dave’s face go hot, even against his own warm skin, can hear him swallow thickly.

“Dude,” Dave mutters, voice hushed, teetering on the borderline between humiliated and turned on, “That was _one_ time. Probably just a fluke.”

“Sure,” Karkat deadpans, unconvinced. He grazes his teeth along Dave’s jaw, careful not to press too hard and draw blood. He just barely hears the whine in Dave’s throat before the sound gets swallowed down with a half laugh.

“Not that I’m trying to put the kibosh on your research,” Dave continues, “By all means, carry on in your noble as fuck pursuit. You’re doing the scientific community proud. In fact, you deserve a grant for that shit. Consider the funds bestowed upon you by the American Society for fingering your boyfriend.”

“I’m truly honored,” Karkat tells him, nudging Dave back to a more horizontal position across the bed, “I’ll be sure to make the sciencemaster chucklefucks proud,” And bites at Dave’s neck, a little less carefully this time.

“Is that-” Dave begins to say, breath hitching, “Are those a real thing?”

And Karkat can’t tell if he’s seriously asking or just being a dick, but he ignores the question all the same. He’s more interested in cradling Dave’s hips with his hands, kissing lower, lower, down into the hollow of his throat, his chin brushing the collar of Dave’s shirt. He slides his hands under the hem of it, saying, “This needs to come off.”

“Not technically,” Dave argues, but he sounds too breathless to be convincing, begins wriggling out of the fabric immediately anyway, “More of a pants-free activity. Shirts are way more negotiable. Hell, you’ve still got yours-”

He doesn’t finish the thought. Karkat’s climbing up and over him to take a spot on the bed, dragging the nails of one hand along his side, over a nipple, and Dave is arching into that touch, gasping softly. His shirt is half-off, then stuck only on one arm, then flung inside-out to the floor. Karkat doesn’t even turn to watch it go. He strokes his fingers over Dave’s ribs, his stomach, right on down into the front of his pants to get skin against skin, to make Dave mutter a string of curses.

“Technically,” He says, borrowing Dave’s phrasing, “I could do this with your pants on.”

“Nah man,” Dave says, shaking his head, “You’d get a wicked hand cramp,” But Karkat doesn’t miss the way he bites at his lip, gaze going a little distant as he considers it. Dave’s got kind of a hangup about doing things quick and dirty, about being shoved up against walls and pushed onto his knees, and Karkat gets it, kind of, feels sort of similarly, except he’s more a fan of drawing things out. They compromise, take turns making a mess of each other. That’s what makes for a great relationship, probably.

“Your concern for my risk of lactic acid build up is endearing,” Karkat tells him, nearly sneering as he undoes the button, the zipper, on Dave’s jeans. It really is though- endearing. Dave in general is endearing. Karkat can’t help staring at him adoringly, knowing full well how stupid he must look and still flinching when Dave calls him out- or maybe he’s calling himself out?

“Yeah, I’m a regular sweetheart,” Dave says with pointed sarcasm, and it takes Karkat a moment to figure out which of their respected self loathing is at work, to judge if he’s taking a comment the wrong way or if Dave is putting himself down.

“I think you’re sweet,” He says, as soft as he ever speaks, very seriously. He tugs Dave’s pants and underwear down off his hips while his expression is stuck somewhere between confused and disbelieving, leans in to kiss him again as Dave kicks his pants the rest of the way off, their legs bumping awkwardly, prompting a few adjustments.

“Seriously though,” Dave says against Karkat’s mouth, not nearly mindful enough of his teeth, “Take your shirt off already.”

And though Karkat would like to think he’s in control here, for now at least, he does as he’s told. His shirt joins Dave’s clothes on the floor, though the pants stay. He hangs over the side of the bed to rummage through the various things that Dave insists on keeping there instead of on a sensible system of shelves or drawers, navigating around a few jarred dead things and absolutely useless musical cassette tapes, finally getting his hands on the box labeled “sex garbage” in Dave’s handwriting, then on the bottle similarly labeled “ass tonic.”

Honestly, Dave thinks he’s so fucking funny. (He kind of is.)

While Karkat slicks his fingers, Dave relaxes, reclines, arms folded behind his head. He watches Karkat like he’s quality entertainment, doesn’t look away until his legs are being spread and there’s a finger up against him, inside him, and it’s not exactly new but he still mumbles, “Be gentle,” all snarky, and keeps giving Karkat smug looks, even as he tenses and squirms.

Karkat’s two fingers into the familiar routine, admiring the still novel feel of Dave’s body as compared to his own nook, when Dave says, “This almost does feel like some teen romance shit. But like, the fade to black part, where you’re supposed to assume they’re poppin’ cherries and rounding bases, but virginity is a made up concept and they only show the really loud makeout scene and then the morning after with appropriately placed sheets anyway.”

It takes Karkat a minute to work all that out. Sometimes Dave’s rambling still confuses him, too layered to pull a meaning from without listening and translating and searching a mental catalogue of references that hold similar significance from two different cultural standpoints.

“If this were the first time we were doing this you would have gushed genetic material all over yourself the minute I got your pants off,” Karkat says. He knows from experience that it’s true. The fact that he was in precisely the same situation at the time only makes it a little bit less funny.

Dave sighs at the memory, or maybe at the way Karkat’s twisted his fingers, saying “I’d still let you be my first though.”

He flutters his eyelashes, and it’s a joke but then again not because Karkat is fairly certain ( _fairly_ certain,) that the first time he ever got intimate with anyone in this timeline was Dave’s first time too, making them each other’s firsts, and in a lot of ways that _is_ a really special memory, and then there’s also the thought that moves immediately to the forefront of Karkat’s hopelessly romantic mind, that Dave could very well be his first and his last and his only and his everything.

“I’d be gentle with you,” Karkat says, not at all joking, because he is, he _was_ , the actual first time he ever did this. He wasn’t good at it then, of course, but that doesn’t mean he has to fake a lack of skill now. He’s got enough experience to know how to touch Dave to make him gasp and writhe and moan all these pretty, filthy little words.

“Oh fuck-” Dave murmurs, losing his relaxed pose in favor of grabbing the sheet beneath him with one hand as if he’s been shaken, “Yeah, okay, awesome, just not too- too gentle.”

Three fingers plus a little more lube is just gentle enough, has Dave arching, rolling his hips, biting back a laugh when Karkat says, “Although, for a blushing virgin you’re letting me get pretty goddamn intimate here.”

Not that he’s complaining.

“It’s ‘cause I’m so im-” Dave’s words catch on a moan, come out breathier than intended, “Impressionable,” He tries to flutter his eyelashes again, but the motion loses some of its comedic effect when he’s shivering like this, “And you’re _so_ charming.”

Karkat can feel the heat in his cheeks, down his neck. He knows damn well he’s anything but charming, but the mock-compliment still gets to him.

Their actual first time was way less coordinated, involved more frustration and laughter. Now Karkat knows where to direct his attention, rubbing the callous-rough pads of his fingers in the right spot, at the right speed, while still being able to kiss at Dave’s throat, only biting the tiniest bit.

Now Dave knows where to direct his constant mumbling, all the encouragement Karkat needs to hear, the requests he needs to be able to make. He doesn’t mind his pulse jumping under Karkat’s tongue, eagerly hisses an affirmative at the still slightly clumsy fingers that encircle his cock.

Dave works a hand between them, over Karkat’s own, a little extra guidance while his attention is divided, asks, “Is this the part where I say you’re-” He pauses, bites back a curse instead, continues with his voice pitching higher, the tone coming out all desperate and not nearly as teasing as it should, “You’re really fucking good at this.”

Karkat grins at the genuine compliment, catches Dave’s eye and holds that gaze, something that’s still a struggle sometimes, no matter how close or comfortable they get. He rearranges his fingers against Dave’s dick, letting him take the lead there, just holding his hand through it, watching his expression twist as their combined efforts push him closer, closer.

“You’re so cute it makes me sick,” Karkat says, because it’s the sappy sort of thing that gets said in troll romance novels, because it’s true, and Dave squirms, tenses, comes with a gasp.

Karkat watches his chest rise and fall, feels the pounding of his pulse all through Dave’s body where they touch. He waits what might be less than an appropriate amount of time before noting, “Still no squeak.”

Young romance roleplay or not, he’s got his priorities.

Dave huffs a breathless laugh, “Damn. All those research dollars...wasted.”

“Who said I was done researching?” Karkat snaps, and Dave’s stupid, precious snickering takes any of the blood left slugging along to his head and redirects it, not even to his bulge, probably just to whatever dimension his self respect and his ability to form complete sentences disappeared to, “Pending, um, approval. By the board or what the fuck ever.”

Dave smiles, doesn’t answer. He’s catching his breath, which might be another patented method for shutting him up, but Karkat is sort of eagerly waiting for a response right now. He releases his tentative grip on Dave’s cock but doesn’t withdraw his fingers, holding them not quite still, shaking slightly with the desire to keep moving.

“Can I-” He begins to ask, but stutters to a stop when he sees Dave already nodding. He curls his fingers, watches, listens for any sign of protest, but Dave just presses his shoulders more firmly against the bed and pants, “Yeah- yeah go ahead.”

So he goes ahead. He keeps working his fingers in and out of Dave, twisting, stroking, moving slow to appreciate the continuous shudder he’s causing. He’s convinced that he probably looks like an awestruck, slack jawed moron at the moment, but he can’t bring himself to care. For this, it’s worth it.

Everything he ever learned about sex from empire sanctioned educational literature was goal oriented; get the required amount of genetic material and get it over with, no messing around, no wasted time or effort. The concept of turning a partner into a boneless whimpering mess over and over just for fun is like some distant fantasy, and this? This is the mental stimulus of a nocturnal emission brought to life and shaped to fit the form of Dave Strider with a white spatter across his stomach, gripping the sheets tight enough to pull the elastic up from the edges of the mattress as his hips buck up, up, with every twitch of Karkat’s fingers, his dick going hard again.

“Oh fuck,” Dave mutters, head turned to one side, like he’s trying to hide his face and Karkat doesn’t even try to stop him, “Fuck, fuck, please-”

“Please?” Karkat prompts.

“I changed my mind,” Dave chokes out, and everything stops.

Karkat stills his fingers, stares up at Dave, eyes wide in concern. Before he can stutter an apology, ask any questions, Dave speaks over him, “I don’t actually give a shit about your research,” He says all at once, like it’s a serious confession, “I just want you to fuck me already. And _not_ like it’s my first time.”

“Oh,” Karkat breathes. When he puts it like that he can’t possibly decline, “Well. Fuck research then. Who needs to prove their hypothesis? Not me, obviously.”

“Science is for chumps,” Dave agrees, squirming as Karkat’s fingers slip out of him.

Karkat is already shoving his pants down low enough to get his bulge out and in hand, asks, _“_ So if we’re not going with the first time thing, how exactly _should_ I fuck you?”

Dave shrugs as much as he can, lying like this and breathing shakily, “Oh, like a nook hungry harlot, definitely.”

“I would’ve taken you for a bulge starved hussy, but- whatever you say.”

“Honestly? You can take me however you want as long as you get your thrusting experiment all up in my waiting conclusion.”

Karkat doesn’t dignify that hideously deformed mess of a mixed metaphor with a response. He gets ahold of Dave’s hips again, steers him nearly into his lap. Dave is slick and stretched and Karkat’s bulge is glistening with the genetic material it’s attempting to leak, and it only takes a quick moment of adjusting for him to slide inside Dave, nice and easy.

He digs his nails into soft skin, shivers at Dave’s gasp, thinks maybe this is a little like a first time after all since he’s about to come after 0.5 seconds of contact. He takes a minute to get his bearings, moves when he’s sure his every nerve isn’t about to rend from his body and betray him.

He fucks into Dave much harder than gentle, more eager than experimenting. He makes Dave fold at the middle and presses him into his messy, lopsided sheets, leaves him grabbing at the fabric, then at his shoulders, blunt, soft human nails making slight indentations in his skin.

Dave’s muttering the full extent of his encyclopedic knowledge of foul language, moaning outright when Karkat whines his own addition to the collection. They’re a two person chain reaction, nudging each other nearer to release with every sound.

Then Karkat angles Dave’s hips up that little bit more, hears him _squeak_ -

He never had a chance. He comes with a muffled shout, biting down on his lower lip hard enough to break the skin.

Dave’s hold on him relaxes, though he’s still hard. He shivers when Karkat pulls out, making a face at the squelchy sound of spilled genetic material, “Congrats,” He says weakly, at least slightly embarrassed, “You did it. You won the sex.”

Karkat scoffs, says, “Not yet,” and fits his hand over Dave’s cock, thumb against the head. Dave only needs to jerk his hips up once, twice, right into that light hold before he’s coming again, quieter this time.

Karkat wipes his hand on his pants; they’re already disgusting anyway. He lays down beside Dave, not too close since they’re hot and sticky, and manages to hold his gaze for a beat before Dave looks elsewhere, slightly lower.

“I’d kiss you,” He says, “But you’ve got some blood there so-”

Karkat wipes the small bead of blood off his lip with a quick swipe of his tongue, but doesn’t make any move to kiss Dave with his cut up mouth.

Just this is nice, lying around, decompressing. Eventually his breathing evens out, matches to Dave’s, relaxed. Karkat thinks there’s something incredible about the fact that he and Dave are both calmer, quieter, when they’re together.

Well- mostly quieter. Dave can’t go too long without mumbling something under his breath, at least. This time around it’s, “If this really were my first time having freaky alien sex on prom night... _or_ being some kind of scientific experiment, I’d probably be weirded out by all the gross slimey shit.”

Karkat glances down at the genetic material drying on Dave’s skin, still coating his own bulge. He asks, “Did you want to make some horrified expressions for authenticity sake?”

“Nah,”Dave says, “I kinda like gross stuff,” To prove it, he reaches over to take Karkat’s sticky hand in his own.

Karkat heaves a contented sigh, leans in to rest his head against Dave’s shoulder, “I kinda like you too, Dave.”

Dave’s betrayed whisper of, “Burn,” is the loudest sound in the room.

.

.

.

 


End file.
